


Surviving

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Boarding School, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To look at us, you would think we have everything. Fancy schooling, nice cars, staff to wait upon us and homes large enough to get lost within. When it comes to it, though, we're doing little more than surviving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surviving

I was mostly asleep when the text message tone jarred me awake. I grabbed my mobile from the bedside table, reading the garbled text and trying to figure out what in the world he meant. A moment later, the phone began to ring. I answered immediately. “Where are you?” I asked him, and his ragged breathing on the other side did nothing to reassure me.

“The tube,” he said, and I could hear the strain in his voice. “Which station is closest to you? I don’t remember.”

“Holland Park. What the fuck are you doing taking the tube?” I replied, climbing out to the bed and flicking on the lights in search of something to put on. I glanced at the clock; it was nearing three in the morning. 

“Draco? Answer me. What the fuck is going on?”

“Can’t drive. I’m half-wasted. Can’t go home. He’s there. S’why I’m blitzed to begin with. Don’t know where else to go. M’sorry I bothered you. I’ll call Pans. See if she can put me up for the night,” he rambled. 

“No, no, no, Draco. Get off at the next stop. I’ll come fetch you. Do you even know how to work the underground?”

“Not really,” he admitted. I knew he had only ever really been on it with me. His father didn’t believe in mingling with commoners. Mine felt it was character building. I’m not convinced either of them quite got it right, but at least I know how to get around on my own. Draco’s utterly lost without his car and its built in GPS. 

“Where are you, exactly? As soon as you get to a stop, I want you to get off the train and tell me where you are.” I grab a pair of trousers, pulling them on one handed and digging around in the wardrobe for a belt. I tuck the phone against my cheek with my shoulder and fasten it, stoop a bit to pull on socks and shoes. Then I rifle through the rack until I find a shirt, pulling the sleeves on and buttoning it up quickly. It’s December in London, and I know it’s got to be frigid out. I also know Draco won’t have had the sense to put on anything decently warm, so I grab a knapsack and toss in a thick woolen jumper and a spare shirt. 

I grab a piece of paper and pen from my desk, writing out a quick note in case I’m not back by the time someone comes to wake me. I toss the note on my bed, making sure it is obvious on my pillow. Then I head down the hallway and towards the back stairs. I’m often grateful for the size of our city house. It’s smaller than the country manor by a good bit, but large enough still that escaping without disturbing my father is an option. I make a stop in the kitchen to toss bottled water into the knapsack as well before heading to the coat closet to gather a spare coat for Draco and one for myself. I’m in the process of selecting a scarf when I hear someone clear their throat from a few feet away.

“Hang on a mo,” I tell Draco, and he goes silent in my ear.

“Father,” I say calmly. He stands there, surveying me and looking mildly concerned.

“Harrison. You are aware of the hour?”

“Yes, sir. Need to go gather a friend. I won’t be long.”

“The Malfoy boy again?” he asks. I nod. 

He shakes his head, reaches into a back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He hands me several crisp notes. “Tell Draco he is welcome to stay as long as he needs. I’ll contact Narcissa.”

“Thank you, Father,” I tell him, and he clasps one large hand on my shoulder. I notice for the first time that he is still in his work attire. “Did you just get in?”

“Long meeting, followed by an even longer after meeting discussion,” he tells me. “I arrived as you were skulking down the hallway. Let’s hope you don’t fancy yourself a career as a spy. You walk with all the delicacy of a herd of elephants, son, really.” 

I shrug. “Take the Land Rover, if you would. The roads are a bit slick tonight. I’d prefer you be in something a bit sturdier than the Jag,” he tells me. I nod and we part ways as I head toward the rear of the house once more. The garage is in the back, and the key cabinet is mounted near the door. I punch in my access code, grab the keys to the indicated vehicle, and head out into the night. 

“Draco, you still there?” I ask as I climb into the driver’s seat of the Rover. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Fuck, s’cold out.”

“Did you find a sign yet?” I ask him. 

“Yeah. I’m just outside of the Queensbury station.”

“Christ. How fucking long have you been riding around?”

“Father and I got into it around ten,” Draco said, and I found myself even more worried about him. 

I headed out of the gates and activated the GPS, setting it to chart a course to Queensbury. I had no idea how he had managed to even find his way to the Central Line. It did at least make it a shorter drive than I had expected. “Draco, love, go on back into the station. I’m a good ways from you yet and it’s too cold for you to be out, alright? I’ll stay on the line if you need me to, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm,” he mumbles. I can hear the click of a lighter. He’s been smoking for a while now, but it’s always especially bad during holidays. Despite my repeated instructions to go inside, he chain smokes until I arrive. I make a mental note to find a Tesco and pick up enough of them to keep him in stock for a while after I lose track of how many times I’ve heard his lighter click.

It feels like an eternity before I pull to the curb outside the station. He climbs into the Rover, and I flick on the interior light to get a decent look at him. “Jesus Christ,” I whisper before I can stop myself. His face is practically one massive bruise. He looks at me with watery eyes. 

“Don’t, alright? Just, don’t. I know, yeah?” He tells me. I reach over and take his hand as I pull away from the curb, turning the heat on full blast and handing him the knapsack. He wraps the coat around himself like a blanket and curls up on the seat, knees pulled tight against his chest. I haven’t gone far when I hear him start to sniffle. 

I find a place to pull over, reaching across and tugging him gently into an embrace. “I’ve got you, Draco. It’s alright now,” I tell him quietly, running a hand through the soft blonde hair. His hair smells like the cigarettes he has been smoking, and I can faintly smell the whisky on his breath underneath the smoke. “Father says you’re welcome to stay. You don’t have to go back.”

I’ve seen him like this many times in the last few years. Lucius Malfoy is the type of man who never should have had children. Draco is an only child, and while it’s certainly good that Lucius doesn’t have two kids to terrorize, it does give him far too much time to knock the crap out of Draco. We’ve been in school together since we were little kids, are in the same year at Eton now. We were assigned to the same house on entry and we’ve been together since. We’re in our final year now, each of us eighteen and heading to Cambridge next year. 

Unfortunately, I haven’t yet found a way to keep him from having to go home on holidays, and so he has been at his father’s estate outside the city for the last two weeks. I’ve talked to him nightly, texted throughout the days. I hold him closely now, listening to his ragged breaths and wiping the tears from his face. The sky is quite pink by the time he is cried out and I resume the drive back to my home. I swipe my pass card at the gate and drive around to the garage. 

Draco is much more sober by now, but none too steady on his feet as we walk to the house. He leans heavily against me and I realize that I am holding most of his weight. It seems to take an eternity before we get to my room, and once we are there, he curls up in a tight ball on the bed. I pull a blanket up over his shivering form. He is so thin that I can’t imagine how he generates any body heat at all. I don’t know how he’s managed to lose so much weight in the two weeks since the end of term, but he has. I fear he hasn’t eaten at all. Even through his clothes and the extra jumper I brought him, I could feel his ribs and spine. 

“Draco, love, what can I do for you?” I ask him quietly.

“Do you have any pain meds?” he asks. I shake my head. All I have access to is paracetemol and a bit of codeine. I doubt either is going to do him much good. I haven’t seen him lift his right arm without wincing. 

“Are you too sober for me to fix your shoulder?” I ask. I know that I shouldn’t know how to do this. I shouldn’t have experience wrenching his arm back into its socket. The reality is that I learned how to do it when we were 14. He showed up for the first of term with a damaged shoulder and a broken spirit. One of the older boys in our house recognized the way he was favoring his arm and pulled the pair of us into his room that evening. Draco was laid on the bed with his teeth clenched around a rolled up flannel while we manipulated the joint back into place. Marcus Flint hadn’t come out and said it, but it was pretty obvious that he must have been used to getting knocked around as well. We didn’t really talk about it, but everything changed that night.

“Just get me something to bite down on,” he says, and I go into the en suite to grab a hand towel. Five minutes later, I am holding him in the aftermath of the far too familiar ritual, his entire body shaking. I run a hand up and down his bony spine, whispering what I hope to be words of comfort in his ear. He has told me several times that once the joint is back in the proper position most of the pain recedes quickly. Tonight, he seems almost to be in shock. He can’t stop shaking and his breathing is uneven. I run a hand down his arm, grasping his wrist at the pulse point and feeling the thready beat of his heart for a few moments. It is far fainter than I can recall feeling in the past, and much too quick. I half want to grab my mobile and call Father to come in, to ask him to contact our family physician to come check on Draco. I’m becoming more worried by the moment, as Draco continues to drag in shallow, panicked breaths and his body shakes in my arms. 

Finally, he settles down and either passes out or falls asleep. I shift until he is lying in the bed and pull the covers up over him to keep him warm. Even in sleep, he is shaking slightly, as though he can’t manage to maintain body temp. I’m so focused on him that I don’t notice that we are being watched.

“Harrison,” Father calls from the doorway, “May I speak with you?”

I tug another blanket over my shivering friend and go to my father. He closes the door and I follow him mutely down the hallway to a small library that I have used as my own for years. Once that door is closed behind us, he looks at me and I know that he has seen Draco’s face. 

“How long?” I ask, and Father looks down to his watch before replying.

“Half an hour or so. Where did you learn to reduce his shoulder?” There’s a look in his eyes that I can’t quite place. I’ve seen him look at my godfather, Sirius, that way in the past. The connection finally clicks in my brain. Father and Sirius, it’s no wonder he’s always been so accepting of the time Draco spends here.

“School. Can you call Dr. Lupin? I’ve never seen him this bad.”

“I will summon him shortly, then. He will be discrete,” he tells me. I know what he means. Lucius, though an evil git at best, is incredibly powerful in the high stakes world our parents live in. Father is in Government, a position with national security that requires more clearances than is remotely reasonable to so much as walk into his office building. Lucius is in Parliament, where his family has been influencing things since the dawn of time. Draco and I both grew up with bodyguards and an army of au pairs and governesses. It’s a great irony that the thing Draco most needs protection from is the man who has spent a small fortune over the years keeping up appearances of great care for his son. 

Father puts his hand on my shoulder. He has that far away look in his eye again and I know he’s thinking of his own relationship with my godfather, Sirius. I’ve never been told details, but I know that Sirius’ father was extremely abusive and that he left home at barely sixteen to live with my father and his family. “You’re old enough to know this,” he says quietly. “Draco looks very much like Sirius did before he left home for good. He always swore he could handle it, that he would be fine. Orion Black nearly killed him the last night there, broken ribs, broken jaw, internal bleeding. He called Remus from the underground, had been riding around lost for hours. Probably would have died if Remus hadn’t managed to find him. He dragged him back here and my father called our physician. Sirius spent a month in hospital having bits and pieces put back together, poorly healed breaks repaired, his spleen removed. I don’t want you to experience that with Draco. Dr. Lupin knows what to do for him, he did when we were barely more than children with Sirius. Tell Draco that if he wishes to stay here long term, I will make any arrangements necessary. I couldn’t stop Orion, but I’ll do anything I can for Draco. If the rumors when we were young had any truth, Abraxus Malfoy was never one to spare the rod, and my guess is that Lucius thinks he is doing nothing wrong. He won’t change. Men like him do not.”

I look at my father, and the memories from so long ago still draw forth a deep pain into his dark eyes. “If Draco ever wishes to speak to someone who will understand, you know Sirius is always available,” he says. I nod. My godfather had long ago changed from the wild rebel of their childhood pictures into an exceptionally gifted psychologist. I had no doubt that if Draco was ever willing to let go of his pride enough to allow it, he would work wonders for him. “Go on back to your friend, Harry,” father finally says, moving to open the door for me.

I walk down the hall, my mind trying to wrap itself around what I’ve just been told. Father is willing to do as his parents had in his youth and take in my best friend. If I’m honest, Draco and I have been more than friends for a long while now, but he is so fragile. It’s never gone beyond tentative kisses and holding him when he’s drunk or hurt. I have a feeling Father knows this. He would probably never actually say it aloud, but his offer of shelter and safe haven makes clear that he will allow us to be together. 

When I enter my room, the first thing I’m aware of is that the bed is empty. I glance to the door of the en suite, slightly ajar and the light within on. I pause at the door long enough to call his name, then go in to kneel beside him in front of the toilet. He’s hunched over the bowl, spitting into the water and panting out his breaths. “Best to just get it over with,” I tell him softly. He nods and shoves his fingers down his throat, coughing a few times before he manages to find his gag reflex.

When he is finished, I help him clean up a bit at the sink before leading him back to the bed. Once he is settled on the pillows, I lie down beside him and take one hand in my own. “Concussion or hangover?” I ask softly. 

“Bit of both, I suppose,” he tells me. 

“Father says you can stay here as long as you need,” I tell him, and he nods, closing his eyes against the tears that are too bright within them. “He’s calling Lupin to come have a look at you, make sure there’s no major harm. You look a right mess, Dray.” 

“I know,” he whispers. I pull him closer to me, wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. He buries his face in my shoulder and his body begins to shake. Last night, he was drunk. I’ve only ever seen him cry when he’s drunk or in pain. Now, sober and shaking in my arms, he seems so broken. “It hurts,” he whimpers, and I don’t know what to do for him. 

“Tell me what to do,” I say softly, feeling a drop of moisture soak into my shirt as he cries in pain. 

“Just don’t leave me,” he whispers. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dray,” I assure him, and eventually he cries himself to sleep in my arms. I manage to reach over him to get my tablet from the bedside table, and am skimming through my Facebook feed when Father knocks at the door before entering, Dr. Lupin by his side. 

“Draco, wake up,” I tell him, shaking him gently as I try to rouse him. His eyes shoot open and he moves faster than I would have thought possible, curling up into a tiny ball and pressing himself against the headboard. His eyes are wild and frightened as he surveys the room. I move carefully closer to him, taking his hand and tugging him towards me. I decide I don’t care what Father sees and guide him into my arms, whispering comfort and reassurance in his ear.

It takes a few moments, but he calms down and wakes up fully. I know full well that he suffers nightmares that are closer to flashbacks than to dreams. We’ve spent more than a few late nights in the kitchen of our House at Eton, drinking tea and “studying” into the dawn hours after he’s woken up in terror. When he finally pulls away from me, Father and Dr. Lupin are still just inside the doorway. I can see from one look at my father that Draco must resemble Sirius in this as well. He looks positively haunted.

“Draco,” Father says as he comes closer. “This is Dr. Lupin. He’s our family physician, and I called him in to have a look at you. Don’t worry about this getting back to your father, he’s quite discrete. I think it best to ensure you’ve no lasting damage from your encounter last night, lad.”

Draco looks at him and nods, clutching one of my hands so tightly it is painful. Dr. Lupin approaches and sits on the edge of the bed. “Draco,” he says quietly. “Would you prefer that Harry stay with you while I look you over?” 

“Please,” he whispers. Father murmurs that he will be in his study should he be needed and leaves quickly. I wonder if this is what it was like when Sirius came to him. I wrap an arm around Draco’s shoulders and he leans against me. Dr. Lupin sits on the edge of the bed for a long while before he speaks again.

“I’ll need you to go ahead and strip down to your pants, once you’re ready to do so,” he tells Draco. “I’m in no rush. Take all the time you need, yeah?”

Draco nods, and his trembling hands go to the buttons of his shirt. He slips it off his shoulders and stands up, unfastening his trousers and letting them drop. I bite down on my tongue, hard, to prevent myself from gasping. His entire torso is bruised. I had half expected that, from the way he had flinched each time he moved in my arms. What I wasn’t prepared for were the two handprint bruises on his upper arms. I could almost see Lucius Malfoy towering over his son, holding his arms and shaking him as he ranted. 

Draco sits back down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to grasp my hand tightly. I sit beside him, far enough away to give Dr. Lupin room to work but close enough for Draco to hang on as hard as he needs.

I watch as Remus gently manipulates each joint, checking for swelling and damage. He listens to Draco’s breathing, his heart, asks him to lie down on his back and presses down on his abdomen. Draco grits his teeth and hisses out his breath as he does so, his fingers gripping my hand so tightly I fear he’s going to snap a bone. As he feels along Draco’s ribs, I shudder when Draco cries out. He’s shaking, his breathing erratic and his skin icy cold. The fragile bones of his chest stand out in sharp relief. I’ve never seen him so thin.

“Draco, I need to ask you some questions,” Remus finally says. 

I reach down to gather Draco’s clothes, helping him to pull the shirt back on and buttoning it up for him when his hands shake too hard to grip the tiny buttons. We don’t bother with the trousers. He looks too shaky to try standing up again. I wrap an arm around his shoulders and he leans against me. I try not to think about how sharply I can feel his ribs through the thin material of the shirt. He answers the questions asked of him in a monotone. Yes, his father is the cause of all of the bruising. No, he hasn’t been eating. No, it has not been his choice to abstain from food. Yes, he has been vomiting. Yes, he’s dizzy. Yes, he suspects a concussion. No, this is not the first time. When the questions are finished, he curls up under the blankets and closes his eyes. He’s still clinging to my hand, still shaking slightly. I sit beside him, brushing a hand though his hair and hoping this is as bad as it gets. I can’t imagine seeing him worse than this; so broken, bruised, fragile. 

“There aren’t any fractures that I can feel. Ideally, I’d like to get films of those ribs, but that’s not an option in home. Who set that shoulder?” Dr. Lupin asks, watching us together.

“Harry did, a little while ago. He knows what to do well enough,” Draco mutters. Dr. Lupin nods, then gently maneuvers Draco’s arm until it is held over his head. Tears glisten in Draco’s eyes but he doesn’t make a sound.

“How long was it displaced?”

“Couple days, I think,” Draco says, his voice barely a whisper. The thought of him in pain for several days, unable to repair the damage and stuck in that house is horrible. He hadn’t told me, in any of the times we spoke and texted, that he was badly injured. He hadn’t actually said anything even when I went to get him, and I suddenly realized that had I not known what his tells were, he probably wouldn’t have admitted it. 

I know that what he probably needs are serious painkillers. I also know that he snapped his wrist in lacrosse last year and only went to the matron when he couldn’t hold a biro without pain severe enough to cause nausea. 

Draco doesn’t lie back down. Instead he draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his good arm around his lower legs and dropping his forehead to his knees. His breathing is slow and deep, the measured, meditative breaths I’ve seen him lapse into so many times. This is his means of fighting panic, of pulling himself together when he really needs to just let himself break down. I know he won’t. Not in front of anyone but me. If I’m honest, only rarely in front of me. I watch him and after a long while, Dr. Lupin nods towards the door and leaves the room. The door has barely closed behind him when a muffled sob comes from the boy beside me.

I want to grab him, pull him into my lap and hold on tight. I know I can’t. I could hurt him. I could frighten him. I’m not sure which possibility worries me more. Instead, I place one hand on his back, feeling the rattling breaths as he cries. It’s over in moments. He is, after all, Draco Malfoy. He was raised to be a politician like his father, a consummate professional at denying emotions. It’s moments like these, when I know he needs desperately to just be a fucking kid, that I hate his father the most. 

When Draco lifts his head, his eyes are completely, utterly empty. He looks at me for a moment, then stands and stumbles toward the en suite. He mumbles something about needing a fucking shower. I know better than to follow him. I’m worried, though, by the lingering unsteadiness in his balance, be it from the amount he drank last night or the aftereffects of two weeks of apparent starvation. I listen intently for any sign that he needs assistance. I’m more relieved than I’d like to admit when he emerges, a towel slung around his narrow hips. 

“Do I have anything to wear here, still?” he asks. 

“I’ll get them,” I tell him. If he wants to behave as though nothing is amiss, I will play along. I stand up, though, crossing the room and opening the door to the walk in closet for him. I grab pants from one of the drawers and toss them to him, then go rifling through the rack for trousers with a prayer of fitting him. He’s several inches taller than me and at his current weight anything of mine is going to hang from him. He’s kept a few sets of clothes here for years, largely for times like these, when he has to get away from his father. I find a set of his things and take them to him. By now he’s sitting, wearing nothing but the pants, cross legged in a wingback chair by the window. My room is not what you could call huge, but Father is adamant that there be other locations for sitting besides my bed and the desk chair. As I get closer, I can see that he is shaking.

“Do you want help?” I ask softly. He doesn’t look up at me when he nods. I try not to think about it as I gently guide his injured arm into the sleeve of the shirt, as I button up the row of buttons and help him into a black cashmere jumper over top. The jumper is one of mine, far too loose on him, but he’s so easily chilled that I can’t help but to try to get him into something warm. The trousers are a bit of a struggle, with the button fly and the utter awkwardness that is having my hands anywhere near his cock. We both know, when it comes down to it, that we’re attracted to one another, have been for years. But the time for exploration is anything but now. 

Once he’s fully clothed, he sinks back into the chair, curling up again in that almost childlike pose with his knees tight to his chest. “You’ll be alright on your own for a bit? You’re not the only one in need of a shower,” I tell him, one hand on his uninjured shoulder. He nods, looks up at me for the briefest of moments and then away. 

I bathe quickly. It seems wrong to leave him alone for very long at all. He is still curled up in the chair when I reenter the bedroom. I dress and return to his side. “Draco,” I say quietly. He looks up, and his eyes are too bright, tear tracks visible on pale cheeks. 

“Tell me what to do,” I tell him. He shrugs. Then winces. 

“M’tired. Feel fucking sick as all fuck, as well.”

On closer examination, he is decidedly green around the edges. “Do you need the toilet? You look rough,” I add.

He thinks for a moment before nodding slowly. I help him to his feet and follow him into the en suite. I drag the rug over from the sink to cushion the floor in front of the toilet and kneel beside him. He coughs into the bowl, spitting and whimpering a bit before his body lurches forward and he vomits. Once it’s over, I grab a cloth from under the sink and hand it to him to scrub his face. He eventually stands up and rinses his mouth at the sink. Once we’re back in the bedroom, he doesn’t argue with me when I lead him to the bed and settle him under the covers, fully clothed. 

“Rest. You need it, all right? I’ll be over there,” I tell him, motioning towards my desk. He closes his eyes and I could swear he’s asleep instantly. I open my laptop, half-heartedly working on revisions to an essay that is due when we return to school. He’s still out when Father comes in to check on us.

“Do you want me to sit with him so you can go get something to eat?” he asks me. 

“I’m fine. Thanks, though. His stomach’s a mess and he’s in pain. I don’t really want him to wake up without me around. He was a bit of a mess earlier,” I admit. 

“I’ll bring you up a sandwich, then,” he tells me. I nod, knowing that arguing with him about whether or not I need anything is a lost cause. He leaves, returning a short while later with a sandwich, fruit, and a bottle of water. I thank him, and he looks again at the bed where Draco is still out cold.

“If he’s still vomiting by tonight, let me know. Sirius used to drink the entire time he was home for holidays. He’d be sick as a dog for days afterwards, without fail.”

I stare up at him. We’ve never discussed his youth. I know that he and his friends were a bit on the wild side, parties and clubs and such. I know that he has told me from the time I was 16 that if ever I need a safe ride home, I am to call and he will send a driver, no questions asked, no consequences given. I know that he has always been willing to provide a safe haven for Draco, that he has never questioned the many late night pickups during school holidays. We’re not close, Father and I, but there is a certain understanding there, that he is doing his best. 

“It seems that it is true what they say about the repetition of history,” Father says softly, one hand clasping my shoulder for a brief moment. “You’re bright enough to deduce this on your own, but I’ll tell you anyway. Sirius and I were lovers before I met your mother. I will never regret the choice to marry her, I loved her very much. I also loved him.” 

I take a deep breath, watching him as he speaks. We don’t discuss Mother. She died when I was a toddler. I have very few memories of her, and for as long as I can recall, it has been Father and Sirius who fulfilled the parental roles in my life. Theoretically, I have probably always known that they are more than friends. It simply isn’t something one discusses. I watch now as Father breaks the taboo, standing close to me and occasionally glancing over at my sleeping friend.

“Sirius was deeply broken, damaged by the things that happened to him. If he weren’t so brilliant, he never would have gotten through school the way he drank. I pulled a needle from his arm a few times over the years when we were in our twenties, your mother once performed CPR on him for twenty minutes while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. I believed him when he said he was fine, that he could handle himself. He couldn’t. Nearly killed himself trying to. I’m not telling you this to frighten you, or to glorify what happened back then. Just, watch out for your Draco. Sirius would say that it’s hard to spare the energy to call for help when you’re busy trying to keep your head above the waves.”

“I know, Father,” I tell him. I don’t, not really, but I’ve watched Draco over the years. I have seen as his spirit was broken, as he came back to school thinner and thinner, have held his head over the toilet after he’s had too much to drink. Father squeezes my shoulder once more, then turns and leaves. It’s probably the most emotionally charged conversation we’ve had in years. On the bed, Draco whimpers in his sleep, rolling over and apparently jostling some part of him that should have been kept still. When he doesn’t settle back down quickly, I go to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently petting his hair until his breathing evens back out. I wonder how in the hell I’m going to stay in my own room when we return to school, knowing how restless his sleep is right now.

It’s several hours before he wakes again, saying nothing as he rolls off the edge of the bed and stumbles to the bathroom. Loud retching summons me to his side, and I rub his back as his empty stomach attempts to vomit up nonexistent contents. He’s crying again when it stops, and I fill the tumbler by the sink and coax the water into him, draping a cool flannel over the back of his neck and kissing his forehead in an attempt to distract him, telling him he needs to drink just a little bit for me. “I’ll just sick it back up,” he whines.

“Try anyway,” I tell him, and he takes another small sip, grimacing and pressing a hand to his concave stomach. We spend close to an hour on the bathroom floor. He sips cautiously at the water, pausing a few times to clutch the toilet. Despite a few rounds of gagging, the water stays down, and he dozes off and on with his head on my shoulder. When the water is gone and he’s been asleep a quarter of an hour, I give up on trying to keep him comfortable on the hard floor and lift him like a little child, carrying his far too light form back to bed. 

He’s up a few more times that afternoon and into the early evening, his stomach seeking revenge for two weeks of poor treatment. It’s all I can do to coax an ounce at a time of water into him and he looks worse and worse as the day wears on. He’s pale and sweaty when Father comes to check on us once more. I’ve long since helped Draco out of his clothes and into a set of loose pajamas. He looks even more emaciated than he is under the loose fabric. I have an arm under his shoulders and am in the process of helping him to the bathroom yet again. Father takes one look at Draco and tells me to leave him on the bed. I watch in disbelief as my father sits beside Draco, gently checking his pulse and telling me to go get the waste bin from the bathroom so that Draco doesn’t have to leave the bed to be sick. He sends me down to the kitchen with instructions to bring up some Lucozade. 

When I come back, Draco is retching into the bin and Father is sitting beside him holding it up, speaking to him in a soft, calm voice. “I know it hurts. I think you’re nearly finished for now. Just breathe, I’ve got you. Harry’s bringing up something to help,” he says, rubbing Draco’s back and watching him. Draco finally lifts his head from the bin and Father wipes his chin with the flannel before putting the bin on the floor. 

“Try to sit up now, lying down will just make the nausea worse. Harry, sit down here so he can lean on you, that’s a good lad now. Draco, I’m going to go rinse out the bin. I’ll be right back,” he says, and I sit on the bed with Draco against me, breathing heavily and with half-lidded eyes. He’s clutching his stomach, whimpering as he breathes. 

Father returns and mixes the Lucozade with some water, holding the mixture to Draco’s lips. “Open up. Just a few drops at a time, that’s it. You’re a bit dehydrated, that’s all. Just keep breathing for me, in and out, nice and slow.”

I have no idea that my father knew how to deal with this, would never have expected him to be so calm and rational as Draco pukes and shakes from the hangover from hell. “Harry, I’ll be back in a moment. I’ve some medication in my room that should help.”

He returns a few moments later, a packet of Stugeron in hand. “This is going to taste foul beyond belief, but you need to chew it up, alright? It will absorb more quickly that way,” he tells him. Draco does as he is told, bringing a hand to his lips as he gags at the taste. 

“Good lad. Now the next one,” Father tells him. Draco complies, and his eyes bulge as he swallows convulsively in an effort to get it down. “Now a bit of the drink,” he coaches, and Draco does as he is told. Father repeats the action several times, getting an ounce of so of the Lucozade and water mixture down him over the next ten minutes. 

Father goes to the en suite to retrieve cold flannels, which are promptly used to drape across the back of Draco’s neck and to wipe his sweaty face. Within an hour, the color is beginning to return to his face and he hasn’t vomited since he swallowed the chewed up motion sickness tablets. I decide I would prefer not to know why Father knows that trick. As it stands, I’m never going to be able to look at Sirius quite the same again. Draco is still leaning against me, half dozing now. 

“Draco, son, I’m going to help you to lie down now. You’re very tired after all that, I’m sure. Get some rest and we’ll wake you in a bit, alright?” Draco nods and Father helps him back to the pillows, covering him up with the blankets and tucking him in like a much younger child. The sedative properties of the medication are making themselves known, and he is asleep quickly.

“That’s probably the worst of it done with now,” Father tells me. “I’ll leave you two for now. He should sleep a few hours at the least. When he wakes, have him sip at the Lucozade, just a little at a time so his stomach stays settled. I’m going to assume he doesn’t drink much?”

“He’s a bit of a lightweight,” I admit. “Drinks as much and as often as any of us, more so when he’s home, just always seems to hit him a bit harder. I’ve never seen him this sick, though.”

“If he’s still feeling poorly in the morning, I’ll call Remus to come have another look at him. Probably nothing but a nasty hangover, though. From the looks of him, it’s not like he’s had much in the way of food lately. Makes it far too easy to get a lot more drunk than you intend.”

I nod, and he leaves the room again, returning a few minutes later with a few small pills in an aluminum packet. “These should do the job to keep his stomach under control once he wakes up. If he asks, they’re promethazine. A bit of paracetamol wouldn’t be amiss, either. He’s going to have a nasty headache. I have to pop into the office for a bit, I’ll have dinner there so you probably will be on your own the rest of the night. Peter is downstairs and Mrs. Weasley will be stopping in to check on you later. Make sure you eat something, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” I tell him. Peter is Father’s personal assistant/valet. He more or less functions as a butler around the house. He’s not half bad, a bit on the antisocial end of things but a decent enough man. Mrs. Weasley has been our city housekeeper for as long as I can remember. She has a huge family of her own, six children. She’s a bit on the smothering side sometimes; wanting to mother me to pieces every chance she gets. But she is an amazing cook and has her uses. 

Two hours later, Draco is still out cold and Mrs. Weasley has brought up a tray with enough food for twelve people. She at least seems to understand when I ask her to leave before I wake Draco. I’m not sure how he’ll handle anyone else seeing him in this state and I don’t want to upset him. She tells me she’ll be down in the kitchen for a bit and will come back for the tray in an hour or so. Once she’s gone, I go to wake Draco. I doubt he’ll be much interested in eating, but I really don’t like how insanely thin he is.

He wakes slowly, blinking up at me and whining that he doesn’t want to get up. “I know, Draco. I know. Just for a little bit, alright? I have some soup for you to have and then you can go back to sleep.”

He grimaces at the mention of food, and I hand him the tablets Father brought in earlier. “Take these first,” I tell him. He swallows them with a tiny sip of the Lucozade. 

“Head hurts,” he tells me. I go to retrieve some paracetamol and he takes that as well. 

I sit with him for a while before I bring up the food thing again. “Do you think you can manage a little bit to eat now?” I ask him. He shrugs, but doesn’t argue when I get up to retrieve a small bowl of soup. It’s a simple broth with a few noodles in it, and it’s obvious that Father explained the situation to Mrs. Weasley. The rest of the tray holds a plate with a large sandwich, cut vegetables, and large portion of treacle tart, but at least the soup is mild and should be gentle enough on his stomach. He manages about half the bowl before he hands it back to me, curling up again on the pillow, one arm wrapped around his stomach.

I dampen a flannel at the bathroom sink, then drape it over his brow. “The bin’s beside you on the floor if you need it,” I tell him. “Try to relax and go back to sleep, alright?”

“So tired,” he whines.

“I know. Just close your eyes. You need to rest.”

He is asleep again within a few moments. I sit down at my desk and eat my own meal. When Mrs. Weasley comes to retrieve the tray, she looks over at Draco and asks quietly if he needs any salve for those bruises. I thank her, and she returns a few minutes later with a tube of ointment. “Just dab it on when he wakes. It will numb them down a bit. Always keep some in my bag, one of my boys is always bound to need it sooner or later. I’ll be heading home in a bit, but you know you can always call if I’m needed. Your father said he would likely be out until quite late.”

“I know. Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I’ll see if he’ll let me put this on him the next time he’s awake.”

A half hour later, she comes back up with another tray, this one containing another bottle of Lucozade, a packet of soda crackers, and a packet of chocolate digestives. “Doubt you’ll want to leave him, and his stomach will stay a bit more settled if he keeps nibbling when he’s awake.”

I thank her again, returning to the schoolwork that is only half occupying any part of my mind. Within an hour, Draco is whimpering in his sleep, both arms clutched around his stomach as he curls up in a tight little ball. I grab the bin that’s still beside the bed just in case before sitting down beside him. “It’s alright, shhhh, everything’s alright,” I tell him, “I’ve got you. Shhh, just breathe,” I coach quietly, tugging him upright and supporting him against my chest. He’s still not fully awake, little grunts of pain every other breath and his body tensed. “Draco, come on now. Come back to me. You’re alright. Everything’s fine,” I coax, holding him close and hoping he wakes up soon. 

“I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. You’re safe,” I tell him. “I know you can hear me. Follow my voice, love. Just follow my voice. Nice, deep breaths for me. You can do that.”

It takes a solid ten minutes before his breathing is fully under control and the tremors fade. ”Fuck,” he whispers. 

“Are you ready for me to let go?” I ask him. He told me a few years back that while being held like this helps immensely, holding onto him too long makes him uneasy. 

“No, please,” he says, and I can only barely hear him.

“Nightmare?” I ask him. He nods against me. “Can you talk about it?”

“Father. Fighting with him. Getting hurt. Scared. So fucking scared. I’m so tired of being scared of him,” he tells me.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t have words to heal him, to help him, to ease this for him. I lost my mother when I was a baby, never knew her outside of Father’s stories, but at least I have my father. I might not see him as much as I should, but he has never laid a hand on me in anger. 

“Sometimes I think it would be better if he just kills me and gets it over with,” he whispers. I hold him tighter, still running my hands over his back. 

I want to shake him. He has always come out of these experiences angry, bitter, but never so defeated. I’m terrified that he is hurting more than I can help. I can give him meds to dull the physical pain. I can hold him and talk him through the panic after a nightmare. I can’t make whatever is inside his head stop hurting him so badly. 

We sit in silence for a long time. I phrase and rephrase the question a thousand times in my head. I don’t want to sound like something out of the school counselor lessons we are all required to participate in a few times a year, but I need to know. I can’t not ask him, not when everything about him is screaming that something is horribly, desperately wrong here. More wrong than my best friend being beaten to hell and back by his monster of a father. 

“Draco?”

“Hmm?”

“This is going to sound stupid any way I say it, so I’m just going to ask, yeah? Do you want to hurt yourself?” The moment the words are out of my mouth I regret them. The little relaxation he had managed curled up in my lap was gone in an instant.

“Not at the moment,” he answers, pulling away to look me in the eyes. 

It’s an honest answer; that much I can tell easily. It doesn’t make it any less disturbing. I don’t know what else to say. If he’s not going to volunteer an explanation, I am not pushing him. I just keep rubbing his back, moving my hand in slow circles over the tense muscles, up and down the knobby ridges and bumps of his ribs and spine. He gradually relaxes back into me. His eyes droop and before long he is asleep again. I worry about how exhausted he is, but decide that he probably just needs the rest to recover from the thrashing he took.

Just in case, though, I send off a text to Dr. Lupin, asking for his opinion. His prompt reply confirms that this is not outside of the norm, and I settle in for the evening with a book and a steady stream of music from my iPod in one ear so that I will hear him if he wakes. He sleeps soundly, though, and when I hear Father in the hallway, it is nearing one in the morning. He comes in quietly, asks me how the afternoon and evening went. I tell him that Draco has largely slept.

“He’ll probably perk up a bit by tomorrow evening,” Father replies calmly. “He’s been through a lot and being sick on top of it doesn’t help matters. You should get some rest as well, now.”

I don’t tell him that I’ve been half waiting for him to come home. I haven’t waited for bedtime hugs and tuck ins since I was a little child. They aren’t necessary, more a job for a mother I don’t have than the father I do. Nonetheless, I put my book and music player on the bedside table and slide into the bed beside Draco. He mumbles something in his sleep and curls up against me, his head finding its way to my chest. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This little story has been riding around in my head for ages. It's my own excuse to do some exploring into the might have beens of a Muggle Harry and Draco born into a high stakes political world. I'm a sucker for a broken Draco, and the canon hints about Sirius Black's upbringing just begged to be fleshed out and brought in. Hope you enjoyed it!


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